38.

They were there, all right — the same pair of squirrels he’d subscribed to since September. He leaned back against the park bench, gnashed his dripping sandwich, and settled in to watch Chip ‘n’ Dale’s Drama Hour unfold. The first crow dragooned the burly one, acorns a-flying, then the runt got bagged on its blitz across the meadow. “Stupid reruns,” the man critiqued, wolfing chips and Hostess Twinkies down his throat.

grh

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